


dangerous and difficult times

by Ladybug_21



Category: Chess - Rice/Ulvaeus/Andersson, The Queen's Gambit (TV)
Genre: Chess Tournaments, Gen, Soviet Defectors, Spy Frenemies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27748768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladybug_21/pseuds/Ladybug_21
Summary: Molokov and de Courcey, meeting at the chess tournament in Merano, share thoughts about some of their past and present charges.
Relationships: Beth Harmon & Georgi Girev, Frederick Trumper & Florence Vassy, Vasily Borgov & Georgi Girev, Walter de Courcey & Alexander Molokov
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	dangerous and difficult times

**Author's Note:**

> Because no one's ever gonna convince me that that CIA officer accompanying Beth Harmon through Moscow wasn't actually Walter de Courcey. Also, I know that the plot of this musical has changed about a trillion times, but in the excellent revival that I had the privilege to see, de Courcey was straight-up CIA and Molokov was straight-up KGB, so assume accordingly that this is fic about Uneasy Cold War Spy Frenemies. I own no rights to _The Queen's Gambit_ nor to _Chess_ , and the title is from [my favorite song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_2vbU7n-aLs) from the latter.

Walter de Courcey truly was a bourbon sort of man, but when in Italy, it only seemed polite to drink the local liquors instead. He had just ordered a glass of amaretto at the bar when he sensed, rather than saw, that he had company.

"Mr. de Courcey," muttered a familiar voice with a lilting accent, and de Courcey instinctively slid his glass to the hand that was farther from the Soviet who had just dropped into the bar stool next to him with a sigh.

"Mr. Molokov," replied de Courcey, lifting his amaretto in a slight toast. " _Za vas_."

Molokov inclined his head, bemused, as de Courcey tipped back his drink.

"I hear your latest champion has arrived in Merano with his typical bombast," chuckled Molokov.

"Yeah, Jesus," muttered de Courcey, tempted to down the rest of his drink in response. Freddie Trumper was a piece of work if he'd ever met one, picking fights with the press, walking out of games in fits of pique. Thank god that Florence Vassy could keep him under control (sometimes, somewhat). The higher-ups in Langley were getting tired enough of having to waste their time and resources sending suits around the world to various chess tournaments. Given the few minor slip-ups that de Courcey had had to date, they no doubt would boot his ass out of the Agency in the blink of an eye if anything too irredeemably melodramatic happened in Merano, and Molokov knew that as well as he did. "But at least he hasn't yet jumped out of a car in the middle of Moscow and missed a plane because he was playing chess with a bunch of cheerful old dedushkas in the park."

Molokov laughed his big, booming bass laugh, as de Courcey knew he would. All of Russia had fallen headlong in love with Elizabeth Harmon in the winter of 1968. After that coup, she could have headed up the Prague Spring herself, and the Kremlin probably would have simply shrugged and wished the Czechoslovaks the best on their journey towards capitalism.

"Well, if you see Liza Harmon anytime soon, please pass along Borgov's regards," Molokov said fondly. "He says that, as a father, he understands why she decided to stop competing and go to university. But he misses watching her play. Luchenko, too."

"Sure," said de Courcey. "I'll let her know. Any other messages you wanna send along to the States?"

Molokov's face tightened.

"No," he said in a dangerously quiet voice.

De Courcey raised an eyebrow, shrugged, and took another sip of amaretto. Anyone who'd ever watched the Soviet delegation knew exactly how much Vasily Borgov and wild-haired old Luchenko and the others had adored Georgi Girev—had proudly watched him grow from the tiny, polite boy who had resigned the old-fashioned way to Beth Harmon in Mexico City, into the dashing young man who had kept his promise and claimed her title of World Champion at age sixteen, only a year after Harmon's victory. Their game had turned into a drawn-out battle that had the world watching and listening with baited breath, and it ended with Girev kissing Harmon's hand and thanking her sincerely for the best game of his entire life. Harmon, who hated losing but had learned to applaud her friends with good grace, relinquished the title and announced her intention to get her degree (perhaps before resuming her career and reclaiming the title). And Girev, with an excited smile to the cameras, had slipped beyond the grasp of his chaperones and defected to American soil.

Frankly, de Courcey was shocked that, after that debacle, Molokov was here in Merano, and not off freezing to death in some camp in Siberia.

Still, he shrugged as casually as possible and said, "I haven't been to Los Angeles in years and years, but they tell me the place is filled with drive-in movie theaters. You can watch a double-feature from the back of your car with a girl for just north of a buck. Now, I know Beth Harmon isn't the type to go to drive-in movies, per se, but rumor has it she's been a few times with a friend over in the City of Angels, on the occasional road trip out west with Benny Watts. These movie dates aren't _romantic_ , people don't seem to think; no one's said anything about seeing Beth Harmon necking in the back of a car with the boy. But it seems like she goes just because she knows how happy it makes her friend, when he's not off running mathematical circles around the geniuses at UCLA."

Molokov stared at de Courcey impassively as the CIA officer tilted back the rest of his amaretto. And de Courcey wondered if he hadn't been a little too cruel about all of this. He knew Molokov well enough by now to know that, menacing as the KGB officer could be, he did often become genuinely fond of his charges, and Girev was no exception. Still, the least he felt he could do was let Molokov know that the kid was doing okay, that his new country was treating him well. Which Molokov no doubt knew, of course; but the Soviet would also do well to know that the Kremlin wasn't the only government out there keeping an eye on young Girev.

"We have high hopes for Sergievsky," said Molokov finally, as if de Courcey hadn't said a word about drive-in movies in Los Angeles. "It will be interesting to see how he performs tomorrow against your Trumper."

As de Courcey lowered his glass, Molokov's hand clapped down over its top, so that the bottom of the glass slapped down onto the surface of the counter with a sharp snap.

"I will be watching his every move very, very carefully," Molokov warned de Courcey in a voice so low that it was almost inaudible.

De Courcey watched Molokov retreat, body relaxed but mind whirring. It wasn't that he went into these things actively trying to help Soviet chess players defect; he technically was there to make sure that Trumper and Vassy left their tournaments in more or less the same condition in which they'd arrived. But de Courcey could remember just how wide Girev's eyes went when he'd landed at JFK after the long plane ride, how merely being in the USA spelled opportunity for the boy in a way that he had never imagined. The USSR had never given the young chess grandmaster space to imagine what came after his world championship, what he wanted to do with his life. Suddenly, the possibilities for Georgi Girev were endless, and as long as he didn't start spying for his erstwhile comrades, the kid was free to do whatever the hell he wanted.

The Soviets had perfected their poker faces for their chess games. De Courcey could tell that Beth Harmon looked at players like Borgov and never saw the infinitesimal cracks in their masks. But the CIA trained its officers how to spot the unspottable. Anatoly Sergievsky's mask was as impressively impassive as Borgov's, but de Courcey detected the undercurrents of telling emotion in each imperceptible twitch in his jaw. The older man had the same trapped look just behind his trained expression that Girev had had. And Molokov too clearly could sense the contours of his charge's discontent.

For a moment, de Courcey felt somewhat sorry for his KGB counterpart. At least if the Agency decided it was done with de Courcey, they'd simply strip him of his clearance and government pension, then show him the door. If he slipped, all he risked was professional humiliation and becoming _persona non grata_ within the U.S. Intelligence Community. None of which was desirable, of course, but the CIA officer knew that Molokov walked an infinitely more perilous tightrope. Damn the man for being so likable. De Courcey hated when his profession required him to play his own games of chess with the lives of people he liked.

But, of course, that was why they had to win, why they had to outsmart and outlast and outplay the ruthless government that Molokov and his unpredictable smile strove to uphold. _It's the U.S. versus USSR_ , de Courcey thought grimly. If Sergievsky made any signs of wishing to defect, de Courcey knew what his move was, even if it meant sacrificing Molokov. That was how these things worked, as Molokov knew well.

Pensive, de Courcey tilted the glass in his hand, contemplating ordering another amaretto to douse this sudden, inconvenient flicker of guilt. But one never knew who might be observing and analyzing any given bar in Merano. And so, with the softest of sighs over Molokov, de Courcey instead left a lira or two on the counter as a tip (Europeans loved the way the Americans tipped, and he _was_ here as a "cultural ambassador") and stoically started up the stairs to see what new trouble Freddie had gotten himself into this evening.


End file.
